


Shatter Song

by fuzipenguin



Series: Trending on the Edge [14]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Face-Sitting, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Open Relationships, Other, Sensory Deprivation, Sounding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 05:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8315080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/pseuds/fuzipenguin
Summary: Jazz's request finally comes to fruition





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vamptigergal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamptigergal/gifts).



> Commission fic

                “Well? Do you feel comfortable doing this for Jazz?” Ratchet rumbled.

                He was sprawled back against Blustreak’s nest of pillows, motionless except for his rapid ventilations. Optics lidded, he watched Bluestreak run a damp cloth over Ratchet’s legs, one by one, removing streaks of lubricant.  He did not seem inclined to help, not that Bluestreak wanted him to. He rather enjoyed the quiet moments of clean-up. It helped bring him down just as much as it did his partner.

                Bluestreak nodded. “Much more so, yes. Just like with you, I’m planning on overloading him once or twice first. Pit, maybe even double that. He’s… well, excited is an understatement. I don’t want it to be over for him too soon.”

                “Mm,” Ratchet hummed, smiling a little. “I have no doubt he’ll be happy; you’ve quite the skilled hand at these,” he praised, gesturing lazily at the tray of used sounds.

                Bluestreak’s sensory panels dipped in embarrassment at the compliment. “You were pretty excited yourself,” he remarked. “We need to find you a more permanent partner, Ratch, so you can do this more often.”

                Ratchet stretched his arms above his head, shoulders and elbows creaking at the movement, a sign of his advanced age. Yet Bluestreak’s spike never failed to stir at the sight of the broad chest and hips of his mentor’s form. Especially when he intimately knew the kind of pleasure that blocky frame could evoke.

                “I don’t have time for a long-term partner, sub or otherwise,” Ratchet commented, lowering his arms back to his sides.

                “That is true,” Bluestreak agreed. Even now, trying to find time alone with Ratchet was a challenge. “Well, maybe once the war ends…”

                “Right. Once the war ends,” Ratchet sighed. Then he shook his head. “But that won’t be any time soon. In the meantime however, if you want to please an old mech, you’ll get Jazz’s permission to film your session so I can watch it.”

                Bluestreak tilted his head to the side as he considered the idea. “I have no problem with it. I’ll ask Jazz, but I doubt he will either. We haven’t really explored exhibitionism, but I think he’ll like the idea, actually. Especially if it’s for you.”

                Ratchet raised an orbital ridge. “Oh, really? He doesn’t worry I’m going to steal you away one of these days?”

                “Jazz thinks it’s hot when we’re together, as infrequent as that’s been lately,” Bluestreak said wryly. “I think he has a bit of a crush on the Big Bad Dom, as he calls you.”

                Ratchet threw his head back and laughed, Bluestreak’s spark warming at the sight. It was nice to see Ratchet relaxed; it was rare to see him boast an honest smile nowadays. Bluestreak vowed to continue these ‘extracurricular’ sessions with his mentor. Both of them certainly benefitted from the release, and Jazz didn’t feel threatened by Ratchet.  

                Laughter trailing off, Ratchet reached down and snagged Bluestreak’s arm, tugging him upwards and breaking him out of his reverie.

                “I’m still cleaning you off!” Bluestreak protested, although he went willingly enough.

                “You don’t mind getting dirty,” Ratchet replied with a leer. “Now get over here and put that spike of yours to use. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how hard it still is.”

                Bluestreak squirmed atop Ratchet’s broad chest until their pelvises lined up. The medic’s thighs spread in encouragement and Bluestreak’s hips fit between them perfectly.

                “Are you really so worried about my spike? Or are you more concerned with this?” Bluestreak purred, his spike head slipping against the warm, slicked protomesh of Ratchet’s valve.

                “A little of both,” Ratchet replied with a devilish glint in his optics. “Now get to work – I’m sure Jazz is going to want to hear how you put the Big Bad Dom in his place.”

 

\--

 

                “Mmmm… that… was _lovely_ ,” Bluesetreak panted, vents blowing hard to cool his frame off. “Now stay there,” he instructed, “I want my fluids in you a while longer.”

                Jazz’s valve was warm and snug around him, calipers cycling restlessly in a desire to overload. He had been denied a release until commanded, although Bluestreak had suffered from no such instruction. He had actually come rather quickly; Jazz was quite skilled at moving his body to create the utmost pleasure in his partner’s. Of course, he wasn’t unaffected in doing so. Judging by the brightness to Jazz’s visor and the involuntary little twitches of his hips from where he was seated atop Bluestreak, it wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge.  

                “Yes, Master,” Jazz replied demurely, with no sign of the frustration he must be feeling.

                Bluestreak reached out and stroked Jazz’s hip, thumb rubbing over his lower belly, close to his spike. It jerked at the near touch, a dribble of transfluid welling up at the tip. Bluestreak moved his hand, thumb and forefinger massaging that slick pearl of fluid into the head of Jazz’s spike. He moaned, pelvis jerking in an aborted motion.

                “You want to come,” Bluestreak stated, lightly pinching the flared tip.

                “Yes, Master,” Jazz replied faintly, going still. He no doubt wanted to rut up into Bluestreak’s fingers. But Bluestreak had trained him well, and Jazz wouldn’t stimulate himself into a release unless ordered to do so.

                “Even though you already came twice tonight? So greedy.”

                Jazz ducked his head, nibbling on his lower lip. “You are so beautiful, Master. You… inspire me.”

                Bluestreak snorted a disbelieving laugh. “Greedy,” he repeated, finally relenting and gripping Jazz’s spike. He began stroking it, his pet’s engine hitching every time Bluestreak circled the head.

                “I want you to overload again. Maybe we can work some of that greed out of your system,” Bluestreak commented, quite enjoying the sensation of Jazz’s calipers quivering in response to the stimulation of his spike.

                “Master… master, what about…?”

                Jazz tilted his head to the side, in the direction of the innocent looking table placed just a few feet away from the berth. Innocent except for the pristine white cloth laid over top of it, showcasing a container of lubricant and several metal sounds gleaming softly in the overhead light. Bluestreak had placed them there on purpose at the start of this session, as well as the last four. They had yet to be used and tonight was the first time Jazz had mentioned them.

                Bluestreak had honestly thought Jazz would have broken a lot sooner than this. It had originally been Jazz’s request, after all. But Bluestreak had been content to let Jazz bring it up when he was ready, all the while perversely enjoying his partner’s increasingly longing glances towards the rods in each subsequent session. 

                “What about them?” Bluestreak asked, fingers tightening. A visible shiver spread over Jazz’s frame, his plating ruffling slightly.

                “Are… are those the sounds, Master?” Jazz hesitantly inquired.

                “They are.”

                At that confirmation, Jazz bit his lip even harder. His hips rolled into Bluestreak’s next stroke, fragging the cage of his hand.

                “Would you… would… would you use them on me… tonight? Please, Master?” Jazz stuttered, staring intently at the table and its contents. His spike pulsed steadily, indicating that his systems were hovering on the verge of overload.

                Bluestreak tightened his grip even further, his hand moving in a blur. “Why, pet… of course. All you had to do was ask.”

                Jazz jerked in place, valve clamping down on Bluestreak’s spike and Jazz’s own spurting warm rivulets of transfluid over both their bellies. Moaning brokenly, Jazz’s head tilted backwards, his mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ shape. Shuddering, he wavered in place for several moments as release washed over him.

                Then, almost in slow motion, he began to fall backwards.

                Bluestreak hurriedly brought his knees up, catching Jazz before he could topple off. In was only a short distance to the floor, but with Jazz’s arms strapped to his frame in a Cybertronian version of a straightjacket, he wouldn’t be able to catch himself. True damage would be unlikely if he fell off the bed, but Bluestreak preferred to be safe than sorry.

                Not that Jazz even seemed to notice his change in position. Panting, he lay in the cradle of Bluestreak’s thighs, helm twisting to stare once more at that inviting display.

                “Oh, Master, please! Yes, please, I want you to use the sounds on me tonight, please, master,” Jazz babbled in a rush, sounding almost delirious.

                Bluestreak grinned to himself. Anticipation certainly made for a good berth tool.

                “Then you will come twice more for me before I do,” Bluestreak commanded, grabbing Jazz’s hips. He pushed his partner up off his spike and then tugged him forward, Jazz’s knees landing on Bluestreak’s spread out sensory panels. Not the most comfortable position for him to be in, but it would do for now.

                Bluestreak pulled Jazz even closer, dragging his pelvis up and over Bluestreak’s bumper. Jazz struggled briefly as he became unbalanced, but Bluestreak’s knees at Jazz’s back helped keep him upright. And with one final tug, Jazz dropped completely down atop Bluestreak’s face.

                He immediately thrust his glossa past the spasming rim of Jazz’s valve, tasting a heady mix of his own fluids and Jazz’s lubricant. Bluestreak swallowed his copious mouthful and began fishing for more, humming contentedly.

                Above him, Jazz keened in pleasure, the sound muffled by the painful clamp of his thighs against Bluestreak’s helm. He paid it no mind, too focused on mercilessly pulling another overload out of his partner. It wouldn’t take long; Jazz’s calipers were already restlessly clenching down around Bluestreak’s glossa, seeking stimulation of all the inner valve nodes.

                His spike or fingers would do a better job for that, but he was less interested in hitting all those small nodes and more in lapping up the sweet juices sitting deep within Jazz’s valve. Bluestreak pressed against Jazz’s rim while pulling down on his pet’s hips, forcing himself deeper.

                Mid-suck, Jazz spasmed again, valve channel fluttering around Bluestreak’s glossa. He withdrew slightly, nibbling on the quivering outer lips before turning his head to murmur against Jazz’s inner thigh.

                “Almost there… just one more left, pet. A double would please me the most.”

                He returned his lips to Jazz’s valve, ruthlessly attacking his anterior node while sliding a hand over to encircle the repressurized spike. Bluestreak began stroking it roughly, swirling his palm over the damp head several times before sliding his fingers down and then back up to start the cycle over again.

                Jazz wailed, hips jerking in Bluestreak’s grip as oversensitive equipment was stimulated so soon after overload. This was one of his pet’s sexual favorites: the pain of hypersensitivity swirling with pleasure, driving him mad.

Bluestreak intended to drive Jazz mad in new ways tonight, but first he had to rid his charged up partner of some of his lust.

                He sucked hard at the throbbing nubbin, lashing its surface with his glossa over and over again. Jazz practically writhed in place, his lubricants coating Bluestreak’s cheeks and nasal ridge and allowing Jazz’s movements to ease into a rocking motion. Bluestreak encouraged it, sliding his hand around to Jazz’s lower back and splaying out his fingers, directing his movements.  

                “Oh, Master…” Jazz moaned throatily. “ _Master_ … master, please, _yes_ …”

                Bluestreak sucked harder, moved his hand faster, and was rewarded with another trickle of lubricant trailing down his chin. Jazz’s engine revved, verging on redlining, and he leaned back more firmly against Bluestreak’s thighs while his pelvis canted downwards. He rode Bluestreak’s mouth, grinding his node against Bluestreak’s lips.

                “So close… Master, so close… feels so good…”

                Well, that just wouldn’t do.

                Crooking his fingers, Bluestreak dug into the underside of Jazz’s spike on the next upstroke while lightening up the suction around his anterior node. Then Bluestreak bit down around it, denta almost meeting as his hand’s downstroke lightened to a feather touch. He alternated barely-there sensation with painful intensity for another thirty seconds, Jazz gradually losing coherency until he was wordlessly crying out.

                When he overloaded, it was practically a shriek. Bluestreak didn’t let up on his administrations, even when Jazz soaked Bluestreak’s hand and mouth. Instead, he continued on, milking out every last ounce of pleasure from the double release until Jazz started to sob pleadingly.

                Only then did Bluestreak gentle his touch, lazily brushing his lips over the swollen node and soothingly rubbing the underside of Jazz’s flared spike head. When Jazz had been reduced to gasps and pitiful little shivers, Bluestreak grasped him by the waist and pushed him away until he perched atop Bluestreak’s abdomen, just below his bumper.

                Then Bluestreak sat up, straightening his legs. Jazz slid the rest of the way onto Bluestreak’s lap, aft hitting his thighs with a dull ‘thump’.

                “Nicely done. Now… what do you say?” Bluestreak prompted softly.

                “… thank you… thank you, Master,” Jazz responded faintly, looking utterly dazed. Good. Just the way Bluestreak wanted him; loose and open.

                “… so good to me, Master,” Jazz continued, squirming weakly. “May I lick you clean, Master?”

                Bluestreak steadied Jazz as he laboriously got his knees under him. “You may.”

                Jazz leaned up, resting his bumper atop Bluestreak’s. Then he began to lick at Bluestreak’s neck, lapping up the fluids which decorated his throat and face. Jazz murmured the occasional quiet ‘thank you’ into Bluestreak’s armor, visor dimming until only a faint flicker of light burned beneath it.

                Bluestreak probably could have ended the session right then. Jazz was in a good place, his energy field swelling with contentment and peace.

                But Jazz had asked for the sounds, and despite his many overloads, his spike was stirring again against Bluestreak’s belly. Just in time too, as Jazz finished licking the extraneous spatters of spill from beneath Bluestreak’s chevron.

                “Thank you, pet,” Bluestreak said, letting gratitude fill his voice. Jazz deserved it. He had done everything right this session. And in the last four as well. He had earned his special treat.

                Jazz sat upright, faint smile on his face. “You’re welcome, Master,” he breathed, optics lighting up enough to stare adoringly at Bluestreak.

                Bluestreak cradled Jazz close, then rolled to the side, taking Jazz with him. Jazz ended up flat on the berth, Bluestreak hovering over him. He stroked his pet’s cheek, touching his forehelm to Jazz’s, a rare show of sentiment for him while in this role.

                “You’ve pleased me greatly,” Bluestreak whispered against Jazz’s cheek. “And now I ask just a few more things of you. Tell me your colors.”

                “Green means all good; yellow means caution; red means full stop,” Jazz recited.

                “Good. I’m going to do something to you now that requires a lot of patience on my part, and a lot of stillness on yours. There will be some new and unique sensations that you’ll be experiencing. If you tell me ‘yellow’, I will ask you to elaborate about what else you think you may need. Do you understand?”

                “I understand, Master,” Jazz replied softly. His ventilations, which had been slowing down, now began to pick up once more in anticipation.

                “Excellent. Unlock your visor for me, please,” Bluestreak instructed, sitting up.

                Jazz stilled in surprise, but a moment later, Bluestreak heard two near silent clicks that indicated Jazz had done as commanded. Bluestreak reached for Jazz’s face, gently lifting the visor up and away. He carefully set it on the shelf over his berth and then looked down at Jazz.

                Milky blue optics gazed back at him, squinting a little. Jazz’s shoulders were visibly tense, and Bluestreak stroked the cloth binding Jazz’s arms to his chest.

                “It’s all right. Don’t I always keep my pet safe?” he asked mildly.

                “Yes, Master. Of course, Master,” Jazz replied dutifully, relaxing just a fraction.

                Jazz was nearly blind in both optics, relying heavily on the visor’s ability to filter and heighten his visual input. He could still see some shadowy movement without it, but barely enough to traverse a room without tripping on something. Jazz had very few non-negotiables and being completely visually blind during a session was one of them. Removing the visor was far as he was willing to take things and Bluestreak rarely even did that.

                But Ratchet had been right about just _feeling_.

                “Well, it looks as if you’re ready for this,” Bluestreak commented, reaching down and gripping Jazz’s spike once more. The other mech hissed painfully when Bluestreak squeezed the warm length.

                Bluestreak immediately lightened his grip. “Still sensitive?” he asked.

                “A little, Master,” Jazz admitted, hips wriggling slightly.

                Bluestreak bent over and carefully examined Jazz’s spike, checking for any damage. He _had_ been quite rough earlier, but there didn’t seem to be any tears or dents in the more fragile surface of the equipment.

                “You’re not injured,” Bluestreak stated, Jazz quickly becoming completely pressurized under his scrutiny.

                “No, Master.”

                “Good. Then we’ll get started.”

                Bluestreak released Jazz to reach for the table, sliding it closer so that it was even with Jazz’s head. That close and Jazz should be able to glimpse the rods since they shined so brightly under the overhead lights.

                Just one more little tease.

                He pulled the jar of lubricant closer and swirled his index finger in it, coating it thoroughly. Then he grasped Jazz’s spike, massaging the lubricant into the head and doing his best to coax some of the slippery stuff into the narrow transfluid channel.

                Ratchet had cautioned Bluestreak that because of Jazz’s smaller size, there were a limited number of rods that could be inserted into his channel. Three of the five on the tray were more for show than actual use tonight. Depending on how Jazz reacted and with future practice, it was possible he could go up another size, but Ratchet had been dubious. Jazz had had several interface upgrades over the years which allowed him to be with ‘bots much larger than he, but there wasn’t any known transfluid channel enhancements.

                “I am allowing you to be a bit more lax in your conversation with me during this procedure,” Bluestreak mentioned, glancing over at Jazz. “Do not be too fixated with proper address; instead I want you tell me how you’re feeling and to just focus on the sensations. Do you understand?”

                “Yes, Master,” Jazz replied, craning his head upwards to try and see what Bluestreak was doing. And that just wouldn’t do.

                “Rest your helm on the berth, pet.”

                “Yes, Master,” Jazz said, the smallest frown flitting across his face before it smoothed out. That was all right. Jazz could be discomforted for just a while until things really got going.

                The tip of Jazz’s spike well lubed, Bluestreak reached for the first rod and coated the distal third of it in the slick. Then he lined the tool up with the channel opening and rested it there.  

                “I’m giving you the first sound now,” Bluestreak announced quietly, although judging by Jazz’s sudden stiffness, he had already guessed that. “Be still.”

                “Yes, Master,” Jazz murmured faintly as the rod breached him.

                Bluestreak paused to let Jazz adjust to the feeling, then gently slid the sound inwards a little further. Jazz’s bottom half remained still as instructed, but movement out of the corner of his optic made Bluestreak glance up to see Jazz arching his head backwards, mouth open.

                “How does that feel, pet?” Bluestreak questioned.

                “… odd, Master.”

                “Color?”

                “Green,” Jazz responded after a few seconds.

                “Very good. I will continue.” Bluestreak carefully slid the sound deeper. It moved inward with ease, well lubed and of a very small diameter. He doubted he would personally be able to feel it much, but it was apparently enough for Jazz who was beginning to ventilate more heavily.

                Bluestreak paused the rod’s forward motion after a few more inches, once more looking up to gauze Jazz’s reaction. His partner was biting his lower lip now, unseeing gaze fixed on the ceiling. Bluestreak’s grip on Jazz’s spike firmed and his other hand gently stirred the rod within Jazz’s channel, lightly pressing up against the sensory-laden lining.

                Jazz cried out, throat arching beautifully in his abandonment to the sensation. “Master!”

                “Still green?” Bluestreak asked, smiling gently at the look of bliss spreading across Jazz’s face.

                “Yes!”

                “Good,” Bluestreak murmured, already advancing the rod further. He used short little thrusts and withdrawals, always moving deeper with each push.  Just when Bluestreak thought the sound was deep enough to start nudging Jazz’s reservoir entrance, his pet made an odd noise.

                Bluestreak looked up to see Jazz’s head twisted to the side, audial to his shoulder as he tried to stare down the length of his body. Tricky little sneak that he was, his helm was still resting on the berth as Bluestreak had previously commanded.

                “Jazz?”

                “I… it’s…” Jazz’s mouth moved, but no further words came out. Bluestreak could understand that. The feeling of the rod as it gone deep had been nearly indescribable for Bluestreak. The only word he had been able to use had been ‘good’.

                And ‘more’.

                He withdrew the sound slightly, once more stirring it within the confines of Jazz’s transfluid channel. Jazz’s neck straightened and Bluestreak watched his pet’s armor flare, catching glimpses of taut abdominal cables. A deep groan tore rose up out of Jazz’s throat as Bluestreak carefully slid his stabilizing hand up Jazz’s spike, lightly squeezing.

                “Tell me how you feel,” Bluestreak coaxed.

                “Weird… good… _claimed_.”

                One of Bluestreak’s orbital ridges rose at the dreamy answer. “Why claimed?”

                “You’ve been everywhere now, Master. Everywhere… all of me… yours…”

                Impulsively, Bluestreak leaned over and pressed a kiss against the underside of Jazz’s flared spike head. Jazz shuddered as Bluestreak’s lips parted, allowing his glossa to slip out and lick up a stray drop of transfluid.

                 “I like that. I like having touched every part of you,” Bluestreak whispered. “But I haven’t. Not quite yet.”

                 Bluestreak straightened and very slowly inched the sound deeper until it met resistance. Jazz whined, his thighs straining against their self-imposed hold. Continuing to keep the rod in place, Bluestreak stirred it again, lightly rubbing against the sensitive tank entrance.

                 Jazz’s head thrashed back and forth, guttural grunts emerging from his open mouth. “… yellow!” he finally choked out.

                 Bluestreak froze, gaze locked on Jazz’s face. “Why yellow, Jazz?”

                 Sagging against the bed as the stimulation faded, Jazz’s lower lip trembled. “It’s so… it’s so much, Master. I…”

                 “Shhh… that’s ok,” Bluestreak replied soothingly, very gently pulling the rod backwards some. Jazz relaxed even more, his knees straightening from their slight rise off the bed. “That area is very, very sensitive. Do you want me to ignore it this time around?”

                 Jazz gnawed on his lower lip as Bluestreak patiently waited. Ratchet had said a lot of mechs couldn’t stand to have rods this deep. Ratchet had certainly seemed to enjoy it, Bluestreak had outright begged for it once he had experienced it, but it might be too much for his lover.

                “Yes, please,” Jazz whispered, flinching a little.

                “It’s all right. I’m not upset,” Bluestreak reassured him. “There’s plenty else left for me to do to you. Here, I’ll show you.”

                Bluestreak moved the rod so that it pressed against the top surface of transfluid lining and slowly began rotating the sound back and forth. He judged the tip of the rod to be at least an inch away from Jazz’s tank aperture, a distance which seemed to still be within his comfort level.  

                As if in response to Bluestreak’s thought process, Jazz moaned. “Nngh… green!”

                Millimeter by millimeter, Bluestreak advanced the sound deeper, watching Jazz’s expression like a turbohawk. The instant Jazz’s optics began to tighten, Bluestreak stopped the motion of the sound except for the back and forth twisting of his hand.

                Within seconds, Jazz’s engine began whining at a distressed pitch, his ventilations turning harsh and ragged. Jazz enjoyed edgeplay although not to the extent that Bluestreak did. Judging where that line was for Jazz was a talent Bluestreak had developed over time through trial and error. He took pride in finding Jazz’s limits and maintaining him there.

                “Give me a color, pet,” Bluestreak instructed over the sounds of Jazz’s moans.

                “Gr.. green… good! There!”

                Just to test him, Bluestreak nudged the rod a fraction deeper, still keeping up with the motions of his hand. Jazz gritted his denta together, his entire body beginning to tremble. Bluestreak kept him there for several seconds, mentally noting its depth.

                “I think you’re ready for the next size up, don’t you?” Bluestreak remarked in a husky voice.

                Without waiting for an answer, Bluestreak began slowly but steadily pulling the rod out of Jazz’s spike, despite his disappointed groan.  

                “You’re doing very well,” Bluestreak added, finally removing the steel toy and examining its surface for any signs of energon. Fortunately there was none and Bluestreak laid the well warmed rod on the table, only to pick up the next largest one. He dipped the end of it inside the container of lube and twirled the sound around, coating the distal half.

                 Extrapolating from Jazz’s general dimensions, Ratchet had estimated that the second rod would be a tight fit. As Bluestreak placed the tip against the transfluid opening in Jazz’s spike, he could see that to be true.

                 “I’m about to start the second rod now,” Bluestreak announced. “This one is quite a bit bigger so you must be very still. Do you understand, pet?”

                 “Yes, Master,” Jazz replied, swallowing audibly. “I want it.”

                 Jazz was trembling from head to toe, milky optics bright. Oh, he _definitely_ wanted it.

                 “Don’t forget your colors,” Bluestreak warned and pressed the tip of the sound inside. It was fascinating to watch the small aperture of the channel resist the intrusion at first and then stretch to accommodate the steel. Lubricant welled up around the rod as the walls of the channel forced the coating of fluid further up the sound. Fortunately Jazz was already well slicked from the first rod.

                 Bluestreak inserted just a the first inch of the instrument and then he paused, allowing Jazz to adjust. His partner was shuddering, valve visibly leaking, and optics dimming as his entire being focused on the sensations from his spike.

                 When he judged Jazz ready, Bluestreak pushed the rod in further, giving his wrist a slight twist and causing Jazz to jerk and cry out.

                 “How does it feel, Jazz?”

                 Jazz’s optic shutters closed tightly. “…so much… so much, Master. More, please.”

                 Bluestreak obliged, carefully inching the sound deeper. He continually paused and drew back before inserting the tool further, trying to keep the lubricant well spread.

                 When the rod was one third of the way in, Bluestreak stopped again to watch Jazz struggle to ventilate. He kept twitching as if he wanted to move. Bluestreak well remembered the urge to both pull away and push into the sensation of the sound. But Jazz held relatively still as instructed.

                 “You’re such a good boy,” Bluestreak praised, lightly squeezing Jazz’s spike. “We’re nearly halfway there.”

                 Jazz’s helm rolled to the side and he rubbed his face against his shoulder. “I… I...”

                 “What’s your color, pet?” Bluestreak asked after a moment of watching his partner fight to produce words.

                 Bluestreak’s orbital ridges furrowed when Jazz didn’t immediately reply.

                 “… green.”

                 “Are you sure?” Bluestreak pressed, soothingly rubbing the underside of Jazz’s spike with a thumb.

                 “Yeah… slow? It’s… it’s just so much,” Jazz mumbled, optics still shuttered.

                 “I understand, Jazz. It’s a very strong sensation,” Bluestreak replied, lightening his grip and gently stroking Jazz’s spike from root to tip and back again. His other hand held the rod perfectly still.

                  Jazz’s back arched a little at the new motion, legs spreading. “That’s good… oh, Master… oooh… I like that.”

                  Bluestreak smiled indulgently, letting the pads of his fingers drag along Jazz’s length before lightly ghosting them back down. He soon got into a rhythm that had Jazz’s hips fitfully twitching as he fought not to pump into the sensation. Jazz’s lower lip dented a little as his denta worried it, soft moans making his frame vibrate.

                  “I bet I could overload you just like this,” Bluestreak commented. “I wouldn’t even have to go any further. Just stroke you off while this thick rod is partly inserted in you. Would you like that? Is that what you want?”

                  With what looked to be a great deal of effort, Jazz stilled all his motions and shook his head slightly. “More, Master? May I have more of it?”

                  “Of course, pet. We’ll just continue to go slow, yes?”

                  Jazz bit his lip again, cringing a little. He looked like he wanted to speak, but wasn’t confident enough to voice his wants. Bluestreak stopped all the motions of his hands.

                  “What is it, Jazz? What do you need?” Bluestreak asked softly.

                  “Master, may I… may I have a hand free? So I can distract myself a little?” Jazz ventured after a long pause.

                  “What is it exactly you intend to do to distract yourself?” Bluestreak returned, curious. He could understand the sentiment. Channeling was intense to say the least; he had been grateful he had been chained to immobility as he didn’t think he would have had Jazz’s control in keeping still, even with joint locks in place.

                  “Play with one of my horns,” Jazz sheepishly replied. “Would that be ok, Master?”

                  Interesting. Jazz’s audial horns were sensitive, but he usually preferred to have them stimulated in a soothing manner instead of as a means of arousal.

                  “It would. Roll over to the left, slowly,” Bluestreak instructed, releasing the rod but keeping his steadying grip on Jazz’s spike.

                  Jazz very carefully did as commanded and Bluestreak reached forward, tugging on the quick release tie to the bondage contraption. Once loosened, Bluestreak gently nudged Jazz to return to his back and helped him remove his left arm from the sling. It took a bit of wriggling, but as soon as Jazz’s hand was free, he lifted it to his helm and lightly grasped his left audial horn, thumb stroking the outer edge.

                  A look of relief passed over his face and Bluestreak raised an orbital ridge in surprise. “What’s your color, pet?”

                  “Green,” Jazz replied immediately.

 _Very_ interesting.

                  “Shall I continue?” Bluestreak asked, noting Jazz’s response and pushing it aside to consider later.

                  “Oh, yes, please, Master,” Jazz said in a rush, hips twitching upwards eagerly.

                  Obliging him, Bluestreak began stroking Jazz’s hard length once more, building the arousal back. Only when Jazz seemed about to vibrate out of his plating did Bluestreak begin to advance the sound once more. He kept its motions slow and deliberate, thrusts short and measured. Every now and then he threw in a little twist of his wrist which made Jazz rub almost furiously at his audial sensor.

                  Soon the rod filled two thirds of Jazz’s spike. His engine once more took on a desperate whine. His vents rasped. His plating flared wide to dispel excess heat, giving Bluestreak a tantalizing view of his partner’s substructure.

                  Pausing, Bluestreak steadied Jazz’s spike while slipping a finger between a transformation seam, stroking one of Jazz’s taut abdominal cables. Jazz moaned, his neck twisting to the side so he could squint at Bluestreak.               

                  “Green, Master,” Jazz choked out as Bluestreak rhythmically squeezed Jazz’s spike. “May I overload soon?”

                  “Soon,” Bluestreak agreed, watching flickers of blue charge race across what exposed struts and substructures he could see. Jazz had done wonderfully; he deserved another overload, and Bluestreak wanted this one to completely wreck him.

                   He nudged the rod forward again, watching Jazz’s mouth work but unable to produce sound at the new flush of sensation. The instrument was approaching the area that had seemed to make Jazz uncomfortable before, so Bluestreak would have to be even more attentive and careful now.

                   Jazz began moaning near continuously as the rod slid incrementally deeper. Bluestreak took to focusing his gaze on Jazz’s face, letting his hands move on automatic. His lover’s expression was more telling than even his own words.

                  “Oh, frag… nngh… Primus, _Primus_ ,” Jazz groaned as Bluestreak began twisting the rod back and forth with slow deliberate turns of his wrist. “Oh, Master…. Master, thank you…”

                  “For what, pet?” Bluestreak absently asked, grasping the base of Jazz’s spike and squeezing gently. The sound hadn’t yet made it down that far, but Jazz still gasped, his head thrashing back and forth.

                  “This… this, Master… oh, it’s good… so good… I can’t even…”

                  “I know. I know, Jazz. I’m happy to do this for you. I love to see you like this, so undone. You’re going to come for me soon, aren’t you?” Bluestreak asked, venturing the sound even deeper.

                  Jazz grunted and then pinched his audial sensor. His lower jaw dropped, and he frantically sucked in air over and over again.

                  “Yy… yes! Please! I wanna overload!”

                  Bluestreak gently stirred the rod within Jazz’s channel once, twice, three times, before nudging it inward a fraction. Jazz’s knees jerked upwards, although his pelvis remained still.

                  “Oh, _Primus_ …” Jazz whispered desperately. “… so much… Blue, it’s so _much_ …”

                  Bluestreak raised an orbital ridge in surprise. He had allowed Jazz _some_ freedom of speech, but this was the first time in years Jazz had ever called him by his designation during a session.

                  He released the rod for a moment, slipping a hand between Jazz’s thighs and pinching one of his more sensitive transformation seams to gain his attention. “What did you call me?” he asked, voice mild in its chastisement.

                  “Master! I meant Master, I’m sorry!” Jazz’s hand broke away from his audial and reached down towards Bluestreak, fingers outstretched and trembling. “Please! Please don’t stop! I’m so sorry!”

                  He was nearly frantic in apology, honest distress twisting his features. The worst punishment now would be for Bluestreak to stop.

                  So he did, for the count of thirty, until Jazz’s pleas were near constant.

                  Only then did Bluestreak reach for the sound. He lightly flicked the remaining length of it, and Jazz abruptly went quiet, his entire body tense and quivering.

                  “Do not abuse my leniency,” Bluestreak warned.

                  “No, Master. Never, Master,” Jazz whimpered, hand now clutching the edge of the berth.

                  “You’re lucky I’m in a mood for a show,” Bluestreak admonished, flicking the tip of the sound again. “Will you give me one?”

                  “Yes, Master. Just tell me… tell me what you want to see, and I’ll do it,” Jazz promised.

                  Bluestreak tugged on the sound, Jazz’s spike throbbing as its channel reluctantly released the hard metal. It was withdrawn several inches and Bluestreak twisted it back and forth again before abruptly pushing it back in.

                  Jazz howled, his heels scraping the berth. Bluestreak didn’t give him much time to savor the sensation; instead he repeated the motion, this time, lightly squeezing Jazz’s spike as the sound dove deep. Lubricant and transfluid made the movement easy, although Bluestreak knew it wasn’t frictionless based on Jazz’s reaction.

                 “Master! Master!” Jazz shrieked, head whipping back and forth on the bed. “Please! Oh, please, I wanna overload!”

                 “That’s what I want to see,” Bluestreak growled, leaning over Jazz to ex-vent the words into his face. “I want to hear you screaming out in pleasure… I want to see you thrash and flail as it consumes you. You’ll do this for me, won’t you?”

                 Bluestreak sunk the rod deep, right to the level that had nearly been too much for Jazz before. Then Bluestreak held the sound in place, twisting the rod back and forth at 360 degree turns. Jazz’s spike throbbed, dribbles of pre-transfluid welling up around the rod and slicking Bluestreak’s fingers even further.

                 “YES! Yes, please, I will!!” Jazz shouted, thighs spreading wantonly. His hips jerked up, control slipping, and Bluestreak knew he wouldn’t be able to hold Jazz at this edge for much longer.

                 “Please… please, master… please… wanna overload, need to, can I come, _please_?” Jazz babbled, milky optics bright and desperate as they stared unerringly at Bluestreak.

                  In answer, he started stroking Jazz’s spike, not as roughly as he would normally, but with intent to stimulate. Jazz’s head flung backwards, his throat arching and exposed. A deep guttural groan tore out of him and his entire body went taut as a bowstring. Bluestreak kept his gaze glued to the frame lying so trustingly beneath his hands. After a count of ten, Bluestreak grasped the rod and began to slowly pull it out, still stroking with his other hand.

                 “You’re going to come for me,” Bluestreak announced. “As soon as this little toy leaves you, you’re going to fill that empty channel with your transfluid. It’s going to burn,” Bluestreak warned, now only a third of the sound remaining. “But it’s going to be a good burn. And your spill is going to splash all over my hands, marking me as much as I’ve just marked you.”

                  When only a single inch remained, Bluestreak stirred it once more and then removed it completely. He tossed it to the bed at Jazz’s side, immediately bringing his fingers back to the head of Jazz’s spike to rub it.

                  “Well? I’m waiting.”

                  Jazz’s ventilations stalled, his engine giving a little hiccup. His optics brightened and a relieved smile lifted the corners of his lips.

                  “Master…” he whispered reverently.

                  The barely audible word spiraled up into a keen as Jazz’s engine abruptly turned over with a roar. His entire body jerked, pelvis thrusting upwards as his spike erupted, spurts of fluids shooting from his spike to land on his abdomen, thighs, and of course all over Bluestreak’s hands.

                 Jazz thrashed on the bed, his upper half rolling over so that he could press his face into the covers. He cried out with every throb on his spike, the sounds half pain, half pleasure. Bluestreak worked him through the spasms, the slick transfluid making his strokes smooth and effortless.

                “That’s it… that’s it, pet… give me it all… I want every drop…” Bluestreak purred, beginning to squeeze with every pass of his hand, pushing the remaining transfluid up and out.

                Jazz started whining with hypersensitivity, rolling to his back and trying to shift his hips away from the punishing grip. Bluestreak progressively lightened his touch until his fingers ghosted over Jazz’s length, playing with the swollen head as Jazz’s frame gradually sagged to the berth surface.

                “Beautiful. So very beautiful…” Bluestreak murmured, finally releasing Jazz’s spike. It was already beginning to depressurize, rapidly sinking back into its sheath. “What’s your color, Jazz?”

                “… green,” Jazz whimpered after a moment. He panted heavily, condensation liberally decorating Jazz’s plating, along with copious amounts of his interfacing fluids. The fingers of his free hand remained clenched into the side of the mattress and Bluestreak reached for them, gently uncrooking the digits and laying his arm back at his side. 

                “Good. Very good. But you’re a mess. You’ve leaked everywhere,” Bluestreak commented, leaning over to see the puddle of lubricant beneath Jazz’s aft. Bluestreak suspected that his valve had overloaded too, based on the spasmodic twitches of the rim.

                “Sorry, Master,” Jazz replied with slurred vocals.

                He didn’t sound apologetic in the slightest. Instead, he sounded smug and sated.

                Just the way Bluestreak liked him.

                “Mmhm. Come here, you.” He grasped Jazz’s thighs and lifted, tugging the protective bed cover out from under him. Bluestreak rolled it into a ball and tossed it aside to be cleaned later.

                “Since you’re so lazy, I guess I will have to clean you up.”

                Bluestreak retrieved the cleaning supplies he had placed on the lower shelf of the table. He soaked a clean rag in cleanser and began wiping away the fluids coating Jazz’s array. Jazz shivered and pouted a little at the cold swipe of the cloth, but began purring as it was switched out for a soft drying towel.

                The process was repeated on Jazz’s aft, once Bluestreak rolled him to his side. Jazz would definitely need a trip to the washracks, but for now, this would suffice. Bluestreak gently nudged Jazz over and then proceeded to work on Jazz’s upper body, tugging the straightjacket off and wiping away any splashes of fluids he found. He hummed a little as he worked, reassured to feel Jazz’s systems working normally, if a bit fast.

                “Thank you, Master,” Jazz murmured when Bluestreak tossed the towels next to the dirtied sheet on the floor. “Did I do good?”

                “You did wonderfully,” Bluestreak replied immediately, using one last rag to wipe his own frame down. His spike was still half hard but he pressed it down behind its panel with only a little discomfort.

                He tossed the cloth to the table and reached for Jazz’s visor. “Scene’s over, Jazz. And you really did do great. I had to be tied down for that, but you held so still.”

                “”twas hard,” Jazz replied, and then giggled drunkenly. Bluestreak fondly shook his head as he lightly touched Jazz’s cheek to warn him that the visor was about to be replaced. 

“Oh, yeah, thanks,” he said in relief as Bluestreak carefully fitted the visual equipment over his face. The visor flashed and then Jazz cocked his head to the side, watching as Bluestreak took hold of an awaiting blanket and spread it out over Jazz’s frame. It was tucked around his feet and then Bluestreak laid down next to him and pulled the heavy cloth up over them both.

                “Mmm… you’re so good to me,” Jazz murmured squirming to get closer. His limbs still seemed uncooperative however, so Bluestreak gathered him up in his arms and rolled, letting Jazz’s head rest against Bluestreak’s shoulder. “Definitely want to do that again. Think I can go the next size up.”

                “We’d have to see. You were loosening up there at the end,” Bluestreak admitted.

                “You can get them with little balls on the tips,” Jazz said with a shiver. “Or at least the humans have some like that. Are these the only ones Ratch has?”

                Bluestreak started stroking Jazz’s back, enjoying the feel of his overwarm frame tucked up against Bluestreak’s. “As far as I know. Is there anything you’d want me to do differently next time?”

                “I want to see,” Jazz answered without pause. “It was great to just feel it, but I wanna watch you slid it into me. Mmmm… yeah,” he added with a little shimmy of his hips.

                “I can do that. Thank you for letting me take your visor off.”

                Jazz nuzzled Bluestreak’s throat, lips brushing against his intake. “You know I trust you, Blue.”

                “There is something to be said for watching a sound be inserted,” Bluestreak commented, recalling his own scene with Ratchet. The way Bluestreak’s spike had bulged… he shuddered in remembered arousal.

                Jazz laughed lightly, systems finally starting to quiet as the last of the excess heat drained from his body. He would be heading into recharge very soon; he had to be exhausted by this point. “Speaking of watching… think Ratchet’s gonna have a good time viewing our little vid?”

                “ _I’m_ going to have a good time watching it,” Bluestreak replied, valve clenching down in anticipation. Jazz was just so _delicious_ in the throes of passion.

                “Mm… we could watch it together. Take me from behind while you do,” Jazz murmured, body gradually going limp from where he was draped across Bluestreak’s chest.

                “You have the best ideas,” Bluestreak said fervently.

                He didn’t even have to look; he could _feel_ Jazz’s smirk. “ _Yeah_ , I do.”

 

~ End    


End file.
